Of Suitcases And Self Indulgence
by Saucie
Summary: Two things an Old One cannot afford: suitcases and self-indulgence. Will's PoV.


~*~

"The brown one or the black one?"

It doesn't quite work like that. The aging. Its not that you're perpetually young and everyone around you just … dies. Think about it. It can't work like that. How'd Merriman get old, then? Why did the Walker age – even if he was a mortal? He _was_ for the Light, after all. Why isn't the Lady a young girl, why isn't her skin smooth and wrinkleless? 

I'm not scared of growing old, like most people are. Because for most people, growing old means dying, eventually. Doesn't mean that for me. So I'm not scared. And my life doesn't pass any faster than it used to – an hour isn't a minute, a year doesn't pass in the blinking of an eyelid. I still have to give exams, I still need to build a career, I still need to live up to my family's expectations. I still _have_ a family.

I'm only nineteen. I _should_ have a family.

I'm not scared. I'm not worried. I'm just … resigned. If I have to live forever – or close enough to forever – there's no point in letting that colour what I have now. I'm me, right now. I'm nineteen and I'm going to university this year – this _month_ – and I don't have a suitcase.

Uh, yes, the object of all this is to buy a suitcase.

Just because I'm an Old One and I'm going to live forever – okay, not quite forever, but spare me the technicalities – doesn't mean I don't need a suitcase. A new suitcase. I have an old suitcase. One that belonged to Stephen and then Robin and then … then nobody, because I refuse to use it. I won't take that old, battered, humiliating – yes, that doesn't quite sound like me, does it? Too many worldly concerns, you think. I think. I'm talking to myself, don't expect me to make sense. But … yes … you – I – think … this isn't Will. Not the Old One. 'Image' doesn't matter to the Old One.

I'm the Youngest of the Old, and I deserve a suitcase to take to university.

My mother thinks I deserve one too. So there.

I mean, it doesn't _really_ matter that I'll live forever, when it comes to buying me stuff. Its just … guilty conscience, you know? So-and-so many people – you don't want me to start quoting the figures now, do you? – are dying right this minute in the world, dying of crimes and vice and general evil, and I have so much life – even if I will age – ahead of me, so much more than them, and I still want things. Covet things. Things like a suitcase.

I wonder where the age limit is. Not the age-limit, the age limit. Same thing, you say. No, there's a difference. It's like … age-limit … which is the – age-limit – for something. And then there's age limit, which is the limit of – age. My age. I wonder where the limit is. 

I mean … when will I stop aging? When will I stop turning a year older on Midwinter's Day? Like – where did Merriman stop? He was old, pretty old, and he never seemed to grow any older. But he had to have grown that old once, in the first place. And I'm not going to stay eternally youthful either – at least, I hope not, can't stand round cheeks for another thousand years.

But no, I'm not going to remain forever young. Which is good. Makes me less of a pathetic hero, you know. A hero so pathetic that he needs to go to university, so pathetic that he spent six months flat studying for his A-Levels. 

What hero gives A-Levels, anyway?

And O-Levels, for that matter?

So you see, in this age of technology and progress – or, uh, exams – it just doesn't make sense for me to not age. And so it makes no sense for me not to buy a suitcase.

Somehow, I still haven't figured out the connection between the suitcase and my age limit. Not hyphenated, remember. 

Oh yeah. Its 'cause of all the things other people don't have and I do and how I shouldn't want more than what I already have … that crap. Yeah. 

And – while we're on the subject – I don't see why I shouldn't like girls. I mean, I spend my entire time thinking that I shouldn't like her because I'll never die and she will and I'll be devastated … but if I _will_ age – even if I do eventually get stuck somewhere along the line – what's the harm? And I think I will have kids. I ought to, don't you think? It should be possible … even though I'm an Old One and everything. Doesn't mean that I can't have kids. 

Never asked Merriman about his family. He's probably divorced, though.

Hang on, they didn't really allow divorces back then. Oh well.

I'll go home and call Jane and tell her that I'm leaving for university in a month. In less than a month, actually. What good will telling her that do? It's not like I see her everyday anyway. 

I'll tell Bran too. Haven't spoken to him in a year – it'll be nice to talk to him. Well, no, it won't, 'cause he's all angry and moody whenever I call, but … I should call. 

I should be able to have kids.

And if I do, I can hand the suitcase down to them and everything'll be fine – damn, another soul dead – and I won't have to struggle with my conscience about it. Then it won't be self-indulgence for me.

Its part of the rules, see. No self-indulgence for the Watcher of the Light. No suitcases for him, either.

Not unless he has kids.

For that he has to get married.

For that, he has to have gone to university first. And gotten a job.

And for that, he needs a suitcase.

Yeah, I think its pretty much justified. Guess I can get it, then. And if, somehow, I can get Paul to buy it and not spend my own money – well, then its not even frivolous spending on my part. Wow.

"The black one," I say, and Paul picks it up and wheels it to the counter.

I think fast, don't I?

~*~

A/N: Thought Will deserved some ranting time. And besides, buying suitcases is a really tough job. Honestly.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Nothing. Except for the suitcase-buying experience.


End file.
